


New Beginning

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: prompt_in_a_box, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid was too damn trusting then, and he was too damn cynical. Maybe now they can meet somewhere in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 105 Gapfiller. Written for LJ's prompt_in_a_box for the astrology prompt, "cancer". I used today's horoscope: _Your feelings tend to run quite a bit deeper than others might realize. Nevertheless, you're at home in your own depths, even if you're having difficulty communicating your emotions to anyone else. Don't worry about other people's expectations. Start slowly and share something easy; then work up to more challenging material later in the day. Be gentle with yourself; getting the ball rolling is enough for now._
> 
> Merle is a racist and a homophobe. As always, his views are not mine.
> 
> * * *

Head shot seems to do the trick, takes 'em down and keeps 'em down, but Daryl still isn't comfortable with burying the bodies. He does it because—

_"Because the chink pouted and batted them long lashes. Got your nuts twisted around his little finger, that one does."_

\--it's what the group wants, closure or some shit. Like saying goodbye and sticking a wooden cross in the ground makes the pain easier to bear, when the person you loved is still just as dead. And there ain't gonna be no more cigarette smoke and no more smudged lipstick on your forehead before you go to school. Just gonna be silence and your brother cuffing you on the side of the head if you sniffle. And later, the whicker of the belt.

He trudges back into the camp, heads straight for the stew simmering on the fire. He needs to fuel up before he heads back to Atlanta. He flops down on a log, snags a bowl from the pile and ladles in a heaping spoonful. It smells good – Lori used the last of the squirrels mixed with some cans of potatoes and jars of pasta sauce she's been saving up – and for once there's enough for everyone. 

Except most folks are huddled next to their tents, either 'cause their stomachs are turned by the stench of the walker's pyre or 'cause they're mourning someone they lost. Mourning's just another thing that don't make shit easier to bear. You just gotta put your head down and carry the fuck on. Crying ain't gonna bring nobody back, either. You just gotta do something, is all.

_"And what are you_ doing, _Daryl? I been gone from that rooftop near twenty-four hours now. Don't look like you're_ doing _shit."_

Daryl worries his lip, swallows a spoonful of the stew. He knows he ought to be making a mental checklist of what he wants to bring to Atlanta, decide whether he wants to take the truck and stow it in that empty lot while he searches on foot or cruise the streets on Merle's bike. He knows he ought to be concentrating on finding his brother, not thinking about… other things. Other people.

He finds Glenn slumped in one of the lawn chairs. His eyes are red-rimmed, and Daryl flashes back to the nursing home roof, Glenn's eyes frantic and terrified above the swath of duct tape on his mouth. He'd felt his finger twitch on the trigger then, knew that if anything happened to the kid none of the damn gangbangers would be left alive to brag about it. The relief when they found Glenn safe and sound inside was enough to make his knees weak.

And being weak is dangerous, now more than ever. He needs to be strong, get his shit together. Track down his brother, even though he doesn't know how the hell he'll find any sign on concrete sidewalks, dodging the dead at every damn turn. He just knows he can't spend his time worrying about some skinny city kid.

Then Glenn buries his head in his hands and all of Daryl's resolve flies out the window. He studies those bent shoulders, the way Glenn's damp hair curls at the nape of his neck. Allows himself to admit for once that getting the kid back yesterday had nothing to do with the security of the group and everything to do with the way his heart beats faster when Glenn looks at him, at the way his stomach ties in knots whenever the kid is around.

Daryl shakes his head, scowls into his bowl as one thought chases another, making his head hurt. The thing is… Merle ain't weak. Merle is the toughest son of a bitch he knows, ain't that what he told Grimes? If anybody can survive on his own, it's Merle. But him and Merle together? That's always been a damn recipe for disaster. He's always known it. When he's with Merle, he don't do nothing but follow in his brother's footsteps like a beaten down coon dog. 

He squints across at Glenn, presses his lips together.

Maybe it's time for him to really _do_ something.

_"You don't give two shits about me, little brother. All you care about is gettin' your damn dick sucked."_

"Shut up, Merle," Daryl mutters under his breath. He pushes up from the log, his head clear for the first time since him and his brother wandered into camp and Glenn smiled and waved at him. Kid was too damn trusting then, and he was too damn cynical. Maybe now they can meet somewhere in the middle.

His boots kick up the dry, dusty soil as he crosses the clearing, and when Glenn looks up at him wearily at first all he can do is squint and try not to shuffle in place. But the kid says nothing, and behind him the muffled sounds of Andrea's sobs drift from the old RV, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Grimes heading their way and his window of opportunity slamming shut with every step that the deputy's battered cowboy boots take. So he shoves his half-eaten bowl of stew toward Glenn. "You oughta eat," he blurts out.

The kid glances into the bowl, raises his eyes.

He doesn't remember a damn thing about the stew, not with Glenn looking up at him with those big brown eyes, looking like the whole fucking world kicked his puppy. But he lifts a shoulder, bites at his lip and moves the bowl a little closer. "Ain't half bad," he offers.

For a moment he thinks Glenn's going to turn away. Daryl feels his shoulders tense up, and part of him starts to pack his bags, make plans to light out before he loses the rest of the daylight. It's the part that burned all his smut mags in a bonfire when he was fourteen so Merle couldn't find them, the part that hung out on the corner and watched the college kids wandering through town on their way to better places, the part that pretended he wasn't picturing one of those smooth-faced college boys when he was banging some chick he picked up at the roadhouse. 

_"Them college boys wouldn't spit on you if you was on fire, boy. You think this flat-faced gook is any different?"_

Then Glenn reaches out, takes the bowl from his hand. For an instant their hands touch, just a light brush of Glenn's fingers against his. Daryl takes a breath, holds on to his side of the bowl for just a little too long, sure he's imagining the sudden spark of electricity. He studies the beaten dirt when he lets go, finally forces himself to raise his eyes.

"Thanks," Glenn says.

Glenn's eyes still look haunted, but when his lips upturn in a small smile Daryl feels all the breath go out of his lungs. Glenn juts his chin toward the empty lawn chair next to him and Daryl eases himself into it. He keeps his eyes on his boots, only manages to dart occasional glances at the kid as he eats. He doesn't talk much, but once – when the sun is going down and Andrea's fallen asleep and the pungent odor of the pyre no longer permeates the air – he actually gets Glenn to laugh.

It's a start.


End file.
